


on a tuesday afternoon

by turnpikedarling



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2015-02-19
Packaged: 2018-03-13 16:57:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3389333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turnpikedarling/pseuds/turnpikedarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>bitty's sick. jack wants to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	on a tuesday afternoon

**Author's Note:**

> for [cayce](http://bellamybllke.tumblr.com), who's sick too.
> 
> published on tumblr [here](http://okayshitty.tumblr.com/post/111433236588/on-a-tuesday-afternoon)!

“Jack, my dude,” Shitty yells, whirling into the kitchen with Lardo in tow. She dusts herself off and wrings out her scarf in the hallway, grimacing at the cold and wet. Shitty drops his stuff and drapes himself dramatically over one of the chairs at the table and Lardo stomps the snow off of her boots onto the linoleum floor. 

“You would not believe how gnarly my Cultural Perspectives on Marriage and Family class was,” Shitty says. “It was honestly like camping in the middle of the woods. Fuckin’ sleeping bags and shit.”

Jack turns around just in time to see Lardo lean back against the doorframe and take a bite of her apple, rolling her eyes at the back of Shitty’s head. 

She takes a very slow, very longsuffering breath and sighs, “Stop trying to make that joke.”

“It was IN TENTS,” Shitty yells again before Lardo even finishes talking, slamming his fists on the table and grinning up at Jack. “Get it?”

“That’s the worst joke I’ve ever heard, Shits,” Jack tells him honestly, and he turns back to the counter to plug in the upright KitchenAid.

“Wait a second,” Lardo says, gasping. Jack assumes she’s finally taken stock of the situation in front of her. “Is that Bitty’s mixer?”

“It is,” Jack confirms, moving the microwave to get to the outlet.

“Do you have a death wish?” she asks, and Jack turns around again.

“Bittle’s sick,” he says, like that explains everything.

“Oh, well that explains everything,” Shitty says, kicking a chair out for Lardo to sit.

“No way,” she says, shaking her head furiously. “I am not sticking around to see the carnage when Bitty finds out you touched his stuff without permission.”

“But Bittle’s sick,” Jack says again.

“The lady’s right,” Shitty tells him, and Lardo thwacks him on the back of the head.

“Call me a lady again, I dare you.”

“I’m going to make him a pie,” Jack tells them, and the unimpressed stares he gets back are enough to make him consider reconsidering his plan.

“Whatever, Zimmerman,” Lardo says, taking another bite of her apple and talking around a mouthful of fruit. “It’s your funeral.”

“I believe in you, Jack,” Shitty tries as he peels himself out of the chair and follows Lardo into the hall. “You can do this. Show Bits he’s got some competition,” he says, and then disappears out of the doorframe.

Jack can hear them whispering conspiratorially all the way down the hall about how Bittle’s going to kill him for ruining his kitchen, but they’re wrong. Jack can do this. He’s got a recipe book in front of him and Holster set him up with a youtube tutorial about how to work the mixer.

Jack can totally do this.

///

Jack, as it turns out, totally can’t do this.

“Oh my god,” Chowder whispers from somewhere behind him. 

Jack can only imagine the look of horror on his face. He might even be crying, if the whimpering sounds are any indication. Jack will never know, because he’s never going to be looking anyone in the eye ever again. It’s his own punishment for himself for the current state of Bittle’s kitchen.

There are three burned pies on the counter and Jack himself is covered head to toe in flour. There’s pie crust dough buried so deep in between the tiles of the kitchen table that Jack is sure it will never be clean again, Bittle’s persistence be damned. 

“Captain,” he hears Chowder breathe out through a grimace, still somewhere through the haze of mess behind him.

Jack squares his shoulders and straightens his back but doesn’t turn around. “Chowder,” he nods.

“Do you need help in here?” Chowder squeaks, and Jack shakes his head.

“Everything’s fine,” Jack answers, resolutely kneading the ball of dough in front of him. Fourth time absolutely has to be the charm.

“Okay, Cap,” Chowder says uncertainly, and Jack can feel him hovering in the doorway waiting for something more.

“Oh, and Chowder,” Jack offers, and he stops kneading as Chowder immediately comes running to his side. He closes his eyes and makes a fist against the counter. The dough squishes between his fingers and he grits his teeth.

“Tell _no one_.”

///

Chowder tells everyone.

“Bro,” Ransom says when he finally gets home from class.

“Bro,” Holster echoes.

“Brooooooo,” Ransom finishes, drawing out the ‘o’ and grinning at Jack from across the room. Holster drops his backpack and they both walk over to where Jack’s standing, holding a perfectly browned peach pie in his hands. 

There’s a moment of silence where they all just stare at it, appreciating its beauty. Jack thinks he sees a tear in Ransom’s eye.

“That’s a beautiful fuckin’ pie, bro,” Holster chokes out. “Can I touch it?”

“Bittle’s sick,” Jack answers, cradling the cooling pastry in his arms. Bittle’s pink, grip-equipped oven mitts are keeping it safe from falling and Jack feels like he just birthed a child, he’s so proud of this fifth try pie.

“Sure, makes sense,” Holster says, but he can’t even stop his hand from slowly reaching out toward it. “I can’t believe you made this.”

“You think he’ll like it?” Jack asks.

“Bro,” Holster says.

“You think he’ll forgive the mess?” Jack adds.

“I think it’s probably better not to tell him,” Ransom says, sweeping his arm out toward the kitchen. “This is, like, bad. This is really bad, bro. You used all the peaches. There’s dough on the ceiling. I’m surprised Bitty’s apron doesn’t have a scorch mark through it. _You used all the peaches._ ”

“I’m really much better with macarons,” Jack sighs.

“What my good dude Rans is saying,” Holster clarifies, “is that Bitty never has to know about this. He’s been asleep upstairs all afternoon and couldn’t even smell the faintly burnt smell of 3 o’clock.”

“I told Chowder not to tell anyone,” Jack mutters.

“The point is: we got your back. We’re on it,” Ransom tells him, clapping him on the shoulder, smile plastered across his face.

“Piemageddon cleanup crew,” Holster adds. “Now take that boy some DayQuil and a slice of this beautiful fuckin’ pie.”

Jack has very little faith in their ability to follow through, but when they usher him out of the kitchen and toward the stairs he sees Chowder standing by out of the corner of his eye. He’s wearing rubber gloves and holding a mop and a bucket full of water, hopping back and forth from foot to foot with an eager look in his eye.

“At ease, frog,” Jack tells him as he walks bye.

“Aye aye, Captain!” Chowder yells. “I’ve got this!”

Jack can hear him running into the kitchen as soon as the path is clear, and he’s all at once grateful for and deeply confused by this Haus and his brothers in it.

///

Jack stops outside Bitty’s door before he knocks. It’s been a long afternoon and he still has a little bit of flour in his hair. The hand holding the pie on its palm is starting to shake just very slightly, and he’s not sure that the hardest part isn’t still ahead of him.

He thinks about just turning around and heading back downstairs. He could leave a note on the pie for Bitty to find later, that might be easier. Bitty might still be asleep, and he wouldn’t want to wreck that just for a pie he made. It’s not worth that. Bitty should get some rest.

Jack goes to turn around and his foot hits the squeaky floorboard in the hallway that he always seems to forget about.

From inside Bitty’s room, he hears, “Jack?”

Jack’s breath catches and he winces as he leans forward, opens the door. It swings in and he sees Bittle sitting there, swaddled in his comforter up to his neck, _My Best Friend’s Wedding_ playing on the laptop sitting in front of him.

“Did I wake you?” Jack asks as he steps inside.

“No, I’ve been up,” Bitty tells him, scooting over as much as he can before he starts coughing with the effort. “Shitty texted me to tell me you’d be visiting.”

Jack thinks Shitty is a traitor.

“Shitty should have let you sleep,” Jack says instead of what’s on his mind.

There’s a minute of silence when Bitty’s sniffling, looking at Jack like he’s something beautiful for even considering being in the same room as an invalid, and Jack almost has to look away. It feels like more than he meant to say this time. He was going to save all this for when Bitty felt better, when he wasn’t so scared of saying it.

“Did you?” Bitty starts, breaking the silence. “Is that? Is that pie?”

“Oh,” Jack answers, looking down at the carefully crafted peach pie he’s somehow still holding even though the whole point of coming upstairs was giving it to Bitty. He holds it out to him. “I made it.”

“For me?” Bitty’s eyes go wide and looks between Jack and the pie, hopeful and pathetic and perfect.

“For you,” Jack tells him, and Bitty promptly throws his arms around Jack’s neck and kisses him. Square on the mouth, germs and all, face still flush with heat from his breaking fever, Bitty kisses Jack short and sweet and pulls away before Jack can even begin to kiss him back.

“Do you have a spoon?” Bitty asks, bumping his shoulder into Jack’s when Jack can only stare at him.

Jack holds up the one he brought and Bitty grabs it, smiling at him.

“I would have kissed you more,” Bitty says, “but I don’t want you to get sick. Can’t have our star player and big important captain sitting out the next game, or anything.”

He smiles, and Jack’s breath catches all over again.

“Now, Zimmerman, me and this pie have a date with the amazing and angelic Julia Roberts. Are you joining us or what?”

“Only if,” he starts, but Bitty cuts him off.

“Is that flour in your hair?” Bitty drops the spoon and clutches his hand to his chest. “Oh my goodness, Jack, what did you do to my kitchen?”

“Oh, I,” Jack tries again.

“Jack Laurent Zimmerman,” Bitty butts in, fingers curling protectively into the blanket wrapped around him. “If I walk downstairs and find out you’ve mistreated any of my beautiful utensils,” he warns, but this time Jack’s the one who gets to lean in and cut him off with a press of their lips together. Germs and all, square on the mouth, Jack slides their mouths together until they fit just right and Bitty gasps, softly, into the kiss. Their teeth clack together as they both smile at the wrong time, and Jack’s flour-covered hand finds its way to Bitty’s jaw in the wake.

“Bittle,” Jack says when he pulls away, assuring him. “Nothing’s broken. Don’t worry, Chowder’s on it.”

“Oh, sweet child o’ mine. That kitchen is in good hands,” Bitty sighs happily as he tucks his feet under him. He grabs the spoon and leans in, slots himself into the fold of Jack’s arms as he covers them both with the tangled blanket. 

“Watch,” Bitty whispers, looking up at Jack as he hits play on the laptop and the movie starts again. “Julia Roberts is just about to tell Dermot Mulroney that she’s in love with him.”

“Is that the good part?” Jack asks, looking down. He’s happy, he thinks. That’s what this is.

Bitty shrugs and grins up at him and cracks the perfectly browned lattice on top of the pie. “I don’t know, Jack,” he says, digging in. “You tell me.”


End file.
